


Recalibrate

by AStudyInAlgedonics



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, fluff that becomes smut if I don't chicken out of writing that part, sherlock takes a bath, wow lighten up on the adjectives Raccoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:20:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/pseuds/AStudyInAlgedonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He says it's transport, but the transport needs more than fuel to keep it maintained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recalibrate

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHA TIME TO DROWN IN ADJECTIVES AND ADVERBS
> 
> I actually have...no idea where this came from. And it's a lot different from my normal writing style. I hear it's good to branch out, though.
> 
> The first constructive criticism I ever received on my writing was "Be more descriptive". To that long-ago reader of my godawful Pokemon fanfiction, I thank you. This is in your memory.
> 
> God I have no idea how to write kissing
> 
> And there may be a smut chapter if I don't get too scared to write it ahahahahaha
> 
> Sir ACD wouldn't actually care-"Marry him, murder him, do whatever you like with him"-but I still don't own ANY FORM of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stretched, and let himself sink fully into the bath, the hot water weaving gently through his hair. He shut his eyes; filled his senses with the warmth and the soft, murmuring burble of the displaced water around him.

When he'd mistaken John's clumsy attempt to make small talk as a come on during that first stakeout at Angelo's, he'd told the other man that his mind alone mattered and that all else was transport. This was true, but not quite an accurate wording: it was, after all, his body that provided his senses, and without his senses, Sherlock's mind was useless and thus Sherlock himself was nothing. Quite an untenable situation.

The trouble was, of course, that it was all too easy for him to get lost in that mind and lose awareness of his body, trapping himself inside the churning engine without sensory information to feed it. And so, every so often, Sherlock had to pause and indulge himself, cater to the transport, _recalibrate_ , as he was doing now. The case that he and John were currently pursuing had led them to the countryside, to a rural town whose single inn's primary basis for boasting was its extravagantly large bathtubs and enough vacancies that getting a double was not a problem. With the main game finished and the case now merely a matter of waiting rather than wits, the Yard's responsibility now, Sherlock was taking the opportunity to recalibrate himself.

Lifting head and torso back out of the water, and resting his back against the wall to support himself, Sherlock opened his eyes and planted his right foot high on the cool tile. Water rushed off of his raised calf, slowing quickly to a periodic dripping that collected for long seconds on the curve of his muscle before falling to the bath's surface with a quiet splash. With his left, he picked up an already-soaped soft cloth and slid it up his thigh, over his knee, trailing the tip of his thumb through the bubbly surface of the thick foam it left behind; he brought the washcloth all the way up to his ankle, brow creasing with the effort to lean up that far, and twisted his hand slightly to glide soap downwards over the back of his leg.  When his entire leg was encased in faintly-audible popping bubbles, he paused a moment, luxuriating in the warm lap of water over his belly, before picking up his travel razor - cheap, disposable, not incredibly sharp, but it was convenient - and began gliding it over his skin, the rasp just barely noticeable past the crackling foam.

Sherlock shut his eyes once more, engulfing himself in pure sensation, as he leaned back and dipped his shaven leg back underwater, letting the remaining soap drift away before tracing his sensitive fingers over it. The faint prick of stubble poked at his fingertips in a few places; it was the best he'd do with the razor he had. He repeated the slow, indulgent process with his left leg, applying the soap just as slowly and the scrape of the blade just as mild; then he moved to his body, shaving away the faint dusting of light hairs around his navel and the trail of them up his stomach to his chest. After a moment to relather his washcloth, he did the same for his arms, removing the darker hairs and leaving them exposed to the cool air.

Once that was done, and he was soft and smooth - nearly smooth, anyway - he dipped himself back into the water, all traces of soap rinsing away, and began running his fingers lightly over his body. The delicate pressure he exerted left a warm, subtle tingling in his skin, the nerve endings responding eagerly to the rare level of attention. He slid his hands up over his chest; he rubbed his shoulders and let his fingers drift over his throat, spending several breaths paying attention to his long and steady pulse. All thought was dulled, now; he was conscious only of the transport and his own physicality. For a moment, he rested his hand on his cock, soft despite the attention he was lavishing on himself in the same way a particularly tender lover might; the action was not preparation for pleasure, but mere acknowledgment of what he regarded as the least important part of the transport. Sometimes, these recalibrations involved masturbation - the body needed release, and Sherlock's was no exception - but he felt no need to do so now.

The bathwater was starting to cool beyond a tolerable level of lukewarmth; and so Sherlock pulled the plug and rose, water cascading off of him. He paused, absorbing the rushing feeling over his skin for long moments, before opening his eyes again-and letting a surprised breath escape him at the sight of John Watson standing there at the threshold of the bathroom door, expression entirely intent and looking as though he'd been there for a while.

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, searching John's face and posture for a clue as to how long he'd been there; there was none, or at least none that Sherlock's relaxation-dulled mind found, but his pupils were large and dark in his blue eyes. That was even more surprising; the pupils dilated when one looked at anything they liked, but this was far more dilation than could be attributed solely to merely friendly regard. This was more than liking; this was arousal, this was John thinking him beautiful, and that came as even more of a shock than seeing the doctor standing there watching him. He felt the never-answered question of their relationship rising up between them again, the same question that they refused to address despite its palpable presence whenever they saved each other's lives, whenever John cajoled Sherlock into eating or sleeping, whenever Sherlock made John laugh despite whatever wildly inappropriate situation they were currently in.

 

_Will you? Will I?_

And they had been dancing around it more than usual, over the course of this case: glances held just a bit too long after the 'Fantastic! Brilliant!' that inevitably followed rapid-fire chains of deduction; easy conversations over one-sided meals freezing into an awkward silence, John flushing eventually and looking away; Sherlock, bound to a chair in the basement of a country house, and soon John bursting in, the criminal's henchmen knocked unconscious and collapsed on the floor, and taking the man himself out with viciousness that could not, surely, be merely field training regularly provided for medical personnel, then hastily untying Sherlock with anxiety on his face. He looked so thoroughly distressed that Sherlock hadn't had the nerve to point out that he was right and crime in the countryside was indeed worse than in London's streets, for fear of a punch. _Timing_ , after all; he was slowly learning that despite his best efforts, and with John, it mattered. Inexplicably, deeply, hugely, it mattered.

John tilted his head, silently questioning, and Sherlock's breath caught slightly for no discernible reason save the fact that _he was asking_. For the first time since they'd met, the unspoken words were, while still unspoken, being acknowledged, and by John himself. Curious to see where this would go, Sherlock nodded once, and stepped out of the draining bath. A smile curved John's lips and he picked up the towel Sherlock had left ready for himself, shaking it out and pulling it around the detective's shoulders before he started to towel him down. Sherlock's eyes drifted shut again, and he stood there soaking in the rough rub of the cotton over his skin, firmly drying away the last of the moisture before rising on his toes and starting to attend to his hair more gently, squeezing out what water clung to it and softly massaging his sensitive scalp. Sherlock let out a low contented sigh and leaned down, angling his neck in a reflexive attempt to make it easier for John to reach.

The movement inadvertently brought their chests flush together, John's wool jumper soft on Sherlock's chest. Intrigued by the contrast of his bare skin against the fabric, Sherlock shifted to align his instep with John's foot as though he were trying to anticipate an attack. Their thighs pressed together, the denim of John's jeans scratching roughly at Sherlock's legs, and as John let the towel fall to the floor with a puff of air and a whump, he caught Sherlock's lips with his own, twining his fingers into his hair.

After a few seconds of simple, still-hesitant pressure, Sherlock encouragingly slid one arm around John's waist, drawing him closer, and flicked his tongue out in gentle invitation, tasting tea on John's lip and a few rough, sweet crumbs caught there in the corner, left over no doubt from the biscuit he must have eaten with it; John deepened the kiss, licking into Sherlock's mouth, slowly and languid strokes of tongue against tongue. There was, after all, no need to hurry; the two of them could take as long as they liked to simply learn each other’s lips and mouths.

John drew back long seconds - or minutes - later with another, brilliant smile on his kiss-darkened lips, catching Sherlock's hand with his own and lacing their fingers. His skin was beautifully warm. Sherlock returned the grin and skimmed his thumb along the side of John’s hand; if he pressed just so, he could feel his pulse: slightly elevated.

“Yes,” he murmured, confirming again, his voice rumbling out in a deeper register than usual, and when John tugged gently at his hand to draw him back into the bedroom, he followed obediently, padding over the soft carpet and sinking onto the leftmost bed with him.


End file.
